


two gods in a godless land

by orphan_account



Category: Original Work
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Jigokuraku Fusion, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:22:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21515218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Martino and Reijirou tests each-other's patience.
Kudos: 4





	two gods in a godless land

**Author's Note:**

> these characters belong to the lovely @UninvitedSin (martino) and @LeapOfChivalry (reijirou)
> 
> this is self-indulgent as hell i swear!!!!!!!!!!!!

Martino came to consciousness when it was too late. When was the last time he was knocked unconscious? He had forgotten, it had been so long since anyone really knocked him good in the head. He sat up, groaned when he felt nausea bubbling in his throat as he pulled himself up. The ground was spinning even when he was sitting down, the ground cold and unforgiving and unsteady underneath him. The palms of his hands felt damp soil, and the smell of a rain long-passed filled his nostrils.

Martino opened his eyes, once he got the nausea under control, to see lush green surrounding him. It was the kind you see in fairytales, where the moss crawled up the stone and the sunlight filtering through the leaves. It was clear he was somewhere far from where he was supposed to be. There are species of flowers he had never seen before littering the ground, and there were no animals to be seen but he knew some… things were moving in this very place, far away though.

As natural as it looked, it didn’t _seem_ natural. Martino was a man of his instincts, he trusted them more often than not, what else has he left other than them? His men might be capable and trustworthy, but at the ripe age of his twenties, Martino has never learned to rely on other people but himself. He was strong, after all, stronger than all of them. Which was why his breath hitched when he flexed his fingers to find that his own strength was akin to hearing music from another room, muffled and you can’t quite make out the words that they’re saying. Like it was draped in cloth that won’t budge. Something was clearly wrong in this place, he realized. Underneath all that smell of rain and grass, there was always the subtle smell of nectar _everywhere_.

It was dreamlike.

Martino has never had a single good dream in his life. That was how he knew it was real.

The various plants that should never belong in this habitat, the very ground, the presence of something alive but not _alive_ constantly mingling in the background like the buzz of a mosquito. It was like this place was manmade. It looked like paradise. As he stood up to his feet, he immediately felt unease. Everything was off-kilter. Something was both watching him and breathing down his neck, both weren’t something he was foreign with but he never felt both at the same time. It was always the former or the latter, never _and_. Shouldering them, he made his way further into the forest.

Only after a few minutes of walking, he stumbled on statues. ‘ _Those of Buddha imagery_ ,’ he thought to himself. They were all merged with nature, vines and the likes growing on them. He found pots as well, all of them had intricate design and some type of plant in the soil that filled them to the brim. He stepped closer to them, and placed his hand on the smooth stone of a Buddha statue’s decapitated head. He swiped his fingers, and they came clean. No dust, no soil. At the same time, he started to hear the skittering that was akin to bugs. This was a forest, bugs and the sorts would be expected, so he paid little mind to it.

Putting one foot after the other, he contemplated the reason of why he was plunged here. Something or someone had set this thing in motion, he didn’t know if it was personal vendetta or one of those Alliance _insects_ that put him here. He wasn’t informed of anyone who might match or even overpower him in there with the exception of a particular someone, unless his Endymions haven’t been doing their jobs. As soon as he figured out a way to get out of this place, he was going to have some _talk_ with the head of Endymion.

Aimlessly but with purpose, he walked for some more until his ears registered a faraway groaning. Multiple voices. All of them were unintelligible. Martino made his steps light, and followed the voices. It was only when he was halfway there that he realized they didn’t seem like they were groans of pain – just… groans. Like if you had too many drinks and the sunlight filtered through the curtains and it woke you up. That kind of groan. When he saw a path to a clearing, and the source of all the sounds he heard, what he saw was… something straight out of an art exhibition, if the theme were the artist’s depiction of hell.

And that came from a man who had seen unspeakable things in his life.

In the middle of the clearing, stood… something. A piece of architecture, like a monument but there were human bodies woven with vines, leaves, moss and flowers attached to it. They were all smiling, some even grinning, and the words that came out of them were mindless – Martino wouldn’t doubt that in the slightest. Flowers sprouted from their flesh, their faces, some from their mouth. Numerous of bodies cut from the torso up, and they all writhed slightly in their place; it was as mesmerizing as it was sickening to look at. Near the bottom of it, he noticed how some of the bodies had their stomach split open as flowers and the like bloomed from inside their gut, from inside their rib-cage. It was like an abstract piece of art, even if it had a purpose, he wouldn’t know what it was. Martino wasn’t a man whose empathy worked anymore, but if he had a shred of it, he would’ve felt sorry for them.

Insects crawled up the monument, there were butterflies fluttering around near the top and it was an ethereal sight. The insects here were bigger than normal, at least as far as he knew, centipedes and butterflies should not be as big as his head but-

There was someone behind him.

He turned, hand outstretched to instantly pop the head of whoever was there the moment they expressed and acted on their hostility like a needle to a water balloon. Martino was initially baffled at how he didn’t sense anything before it got too close for comfort, he was convinced that it had to do with his ability being suppressed underneath a smother of blankets. But once he saw who it was, the thought of his ability being drastically weakened quickly replaced itself with an annoyed _no wonder_.

Osama Reijirou can be as quiet as he wanted, but his presence will always be as loud as it would be in a battlefield. A constant thunderclap.

The man himself stood before him, a few feet away and missing his left hand. His right hand is clutching the handle of his sword, still in its wooden scabbard, and if the situation were any different: Martino would have laughed at the man’s face for not drawing them immediately at the very sight of him. He spared a glance at the missing left hand, one look ought to tell you that it was a quick and clean cut right where the hand meets the wrist. A tourniquet made out of the left sleeve of his kimono was wrapped around it, stopping any risk from bleeding out. Martino flexed the fingers of his outstretched hand, and Reijirou’s frown deepened a little, some of the veins on his head bulging a little.

Good.

“Fancy seeing you here.” Martino said, the bite and venom of a snake.

Reijirou said nothing, but the glint of sunray reflecting from the slightly exposed blade was a threat all the same. But his face showed no intent to fight, not unless it came down to it, which made the gears in Martino’s head turn. Wouldn’t this be the perfect opportunity?

“What have you brought me here for, if not to fight?”

“Quick of you to assume that I brought you, and myself, here out of my own volition.” Reijirou held his left hand up, and something in his face was grim and he looked at something behind Martino. The gall to look away from him was enough to set Martino’s teeth to the edge, Reijirou should know better than anyone else that casting your eyes away from Martino would prove fatal. He didn’t look away, lest Reijirou cuts his head off the moment he does so. He knew he wasn’t as powerful, and Martino will not take any chances that would make him more at a disadvantage than he already was. He did eye the stump that used to be where Reijirou’s hand was, and wondered what kind of monster was capable of cutting it clean like that. He wondered what he was up against, if it wasn’t Reijirou himself.

“We are not here by your choice either, I see.” Said Reijirou, eyes back on Martino himself. “I should’ve known. This place does not suit your image.”

“And just what is that supposed to mean?” Martino raised a brow.

“You are a heathen,” and Reijirou glanced to the Buddha statue that stood just a little to the right of Martino. “There is so much religious imagery here that it even made _me_ sick.”

_Your hell is my paradise, and my paradise is your hell._

“Your hand. What beast took it?”

“I cut it myself.” Reijirou said, now brandishing his sword. It was stained dark with blood, and something darker than blood. He put it back in its scabbard once he had proven his words. “Those butterflies, they sting.”

Martino wondered if Reijirou was losing his mind. “ _Those_? A little sting made you cut your whole hand off? I don’t recall you ever being a delusional madman.”

Reijirou’s lips pursed, and he took something wrapped in more cloth from his side. He held it up, and threw it to the ground right in-between them. The cloth fluttered open, and inside is the remnants of what might be Reijirou’s left hand – flowers sprouted from the flesh, some of the fingernails were deformed into what might be little twigs. The hand itself wasn’t decaying, it was more like if someone put seeds into your bloodstream and let them grow. It was unsettling. It was unnatural. It made something primordial crawl up Martino’s guts, something long forgotten.

A loud rumble made Martino tear his eyes off the hand, and another one. It was rhythmic, like a giant’s footstep, and he could tell something was approaching from afar. He knew that Reijirou could tell too, judging by how the grip on his sword tighten. As a shadow fell over them, he didn’t look up until Reijirou himself tilted his head back to see the giant figure blocking the sun. It was big, tall as a building and from this view; they could only see everything that is above the waist of that creature. An arm was outstretched from its respective eye-socket, palm out. Its face was gaunt and long, its mouth wide open and a tongue as long as its whole torso and then some was lolling out. Its skin was as black as the night sky, it had no ears whatsoever. It continued to move forward, the multiple _shakujo_ that was embedded in its neck and waist as well as the one it held made a light, jingling sound from its rings that echoed throughout the forest. It hadn’t noticed them yet, and it was only at the third jingle of the _shakujo_ that Martino realized he had been holding his breath the entire time it has showed up.

Despite the loud sound of its footsteps, the ground didn’t shake at all. His footing remained stable, but the jingle made the inside of his head itch. It made him want to avoid that noise, despite how much he wanted to kill it – it made him _hesitate_ and hesitation is the first step to a grave mistake. At the fourth jingle, he looked back at Reijirou to find the man’s eyebrows furrowed, still looking at the creature before it finally settled onto Martino’s form.

Reijirou jerked his head, and Martino turned to find the butterflies and all the insects swarming the monument looking at him. Looking at _them_. All of the insects had human faces, and that solidifies the thought he had about this place being otherworldly – nothing like these exists in the world that he knows. They flutter and crawled towards them, and Martino, for once, listened to reason from another person beside himself. He lowered his hand and backed up a few steps to give himself more room at the same time Reijirou took a few steps forward, holding his sword in the only hand he has left but with no less courage than when he used to have his other hand. They stood almost side-by-side, Martino tilting his chin up and looking at these insects with a disgusted look. The _shakujo_ jingled again, and coupled with the dizzying number of insects; the inside of Martino’s head itched more. Had his senses been this sensitive?

“Try getting stung by one of them.” Reijirou said from his side, tone flat and not in his usual cockiness that was always there. “Then come back and tell me I’m delusional.”

* * *

It was easy, killing the insects. The problem was to avoid getting stung. The sheer number of the insects almost overwhelmed them, but they pulled through easily enough. These insects _bleed_ , and that made the slaughter messier. By the time they’re done, Martino was almost drenched in it while Reijirou remained clean, the white of his hair remained free of any blood due to his quick and clean execution method. He would never imagine the day where they fought the same enemy instead of each-other, it was jarring. Martino had never fought with anyone or any ally at his side, let alone an enemy.

After crushing the last of the insects, Martino turned his head towards the direction of that creature they both saw before. It was advancing away, and some pressure from Martino’s head elevated; leaving him a little light-headed. Reijirou sheathed his sword back, and made his way closer to the pile of writhing half-alive corpses while Martino stood at where he was, shaking the blood of his fingers like shaking off excess water.

“We are alone in this place.” Said Reijirou, distant and detached as he knelt a few steps away from the monument. It would be so easy for Martino to just drive his hand right through Reijirou’s back, strike him right between his ribs.

“You’re wrong,” said Martino, “I can feel living beings in here. They’re all over the place.”

Reijirou turned, and fixed him with a stare. Martino stared right back, steel with steel, hurricane and thunderstorm.

“Tell me. Are any of them human?”

Martino kept his mouth shut. All of the living things he sensed and surrounded him, none of them felt human. They were living a different kind of _living_ , he couldn’t place his finger on it. These creatures are all biological, they all have flesh and blood, but the only thing that even resembled human was the man crouched a few meters away from him. He couldn’t feel the familiar presence of any Hemitheois, or the annoying mark that Reijirou put on his commanders anywhere. This place isn’t out of place, _they_ were out of place.

“This place doesn’t make any goddamn sense.” Martino said, through gritted teeth.

“It feels fake.” Said Reijirou, apparently finished with whatever he was doing. “I saw creatures, before that big one and the insects. They all wore prayer beads and other religious paraphernalia, derived from either Buddhism or Taoism.”

“All these imageries, the paradise-like feel to it all…” Martino trailed off, eyes to the statues that littered their surroundings.

This place feels artificial, manmade, a projection of what an afterlife or a paradise would be.

This place feels like a _graveyard_.

“Indeed,” Reijirou stood. He unsheathed his sword, and aimed the tip of it towards the monument. Martino hoped he wasn’t going to put those poor fucks out of misery, it’ll take the whole day and they don’t have time to dawdle.

“This place is either our graveyard,” all this uneasiness derived from manmade divine beings and look-alike of Gods built with the flesh and bones of humans, “or the pathway to atonement.”

Martino witnessed Reijirou taking a slow, deep breath before cutting four to five heads in a single swing. It would be too fast for the human eye to keep up, but Martino has never been quite human – and the same goes for Reijirou. He watched with apt interest as the other man put them all to rest. After their head was cut off, the rest of the body stopped writhing.

He took a moment to consider Reijirou’s words. A pathway to atonement, he said. The Emperor would have put a bullet right between Reijirou’s eyes if he had said that outside of this place, to imply that there was a _blessed road_ open for him like he deserved it. There was no atonement for him, no atonement for Reijirou either. They were too dirty for that, even if Reijirou painted himself as a holier-than-thou man in front of all his soldiers and the enemy of his soldiers. Reijirou can lie to them as much as he wanted, but he saw straight through it. At least Martino doesn’t lie about his own dirty laundry.

They are the sacrificial lamb. The one who shoulders all the weight of the bodies they’ve mangled, the bodies they’ve destroyed, the souls they’ve killed. He always thought sovereigns never went to heaven or hell, no, none of it would accept them – they go somewhere else.

So the idea of a heavensent sovereign? Please.

Both of them are marching for the same cause, the difference was that he never believed in the whole _pacifist_ bullshit. If you were to do a body count for every single man that has ever fell to the Alliance and his organization, the amount would be close to the same.

(He is as curious of Reijirou as he wants him dead.)

Contrary to popular belief, Martino never quite learned how to stay still. He was not fidgety, no, it was more like… he hated being idle. A tap of his foot here, the act of brushing his thumb over each tips of his fingers, or rolling his shoulders. Those who survive were ones that never stayed idle. Had to be alert, had to dodge the next bullet, shrapnel, cannonballs, had to listen for the whistle of a shell, the ticking of a time bomb, the…

He watched every move Reijirou made. For every strike, Martino dragged a fingernail down his palm. As odd as it was, the corpses still bleed every time their head got cut off. It just oozed more sluggishly, looking more like tar than actual blood. Some of them congealed faster. They pooled around the monument, spreading ever so slowly until it pooled around Reijirou’s _zori_. The rest of his garments stayed clean, and wasn’t that just symbolic? The rest of him stayed pristine, but turn the soles of his shoes and you realize that they had never stayed clean – the blood never even dried before he stepped onto another.

“Amouteru.” Reijirou called, his body now turned towards Martino. “The way I see it, there are only two ways which we are going to do this.”

He pointed the tip of his sword down to the ground, not at Martino, and _that_ made the inside his head itch again with indignation. He wanted Reijirou to point it at him, wanted to scratch the itch as much as he wanted to let them stay and see where this goes.

“We fight,” Martino continued, “until one of us dies, with one hand tied behind our back and without the thrill of a real fight.” This place made him weaker, he had no doubts it debilitated Reijirou’s as well. They could do that. The lucky loser got to move on from this place, from the ropes that held them down to the world and the other will live to die another day. But what would it worth? There were no spectators, no one to see him parading Reijirou’s lifeless body around like a hard-won trophy or his head on a spike if he wanted to go a little more traditional. Only these monsters.

“Or we reach a stalemate,” said Reijirou, “we demolish this whole place and go our separate ways once all is said and done. We pretend this never happen, and we’ll go back to having the sharp edge of a blade to each-other’s throats like usual.”

“And what makes you think that I can’t do that alone?” Martino asked, the edge of an insult on the tip of his tongue.

“Okay, a third way.” Reijirou said, apparently patience now tested. “Every man to himself.”

“Every man to himself.” Martino repeated, soon followed the sound by a loud wailing from far away; like a siren, like a warning.

* * *

That time, they went their own way. Martino leaving rivers of blood wherever he goes. Reijirou, whose steps are forever stained in blood.

They don’t last a day.


End file.
